


Luck

by Agents_of_Sherlolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 50 reasons to have (Sherlolly) sex, Drunk Sex, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, smutember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agents_of_Sherlolly/pseuds/Agents_of_Sherlolly
Summary: 50 Reasons to have (Sherlolly) sex #7: Bangin' For RoofMy submission for Smutember 2016. Takes place at some nebulous point during Series 1/2.





	

Sherlock didn't believe in luck.

He didn't believe in luck, but if he did, he would have to admit that he was one lucky bastard.

John had banished him from 221B for the evening so he could entertain his girlfriend du jour...Jemma? Jenny? ...Boring. Irrelevant... and so he had retreated to Bart's Lab to keep himself busy and "far away from the bloody flat while I'm trying to get off, Sherlock, just for once."

Normally he would have been happy to stay all night at his home from home, puttering about the lab, but Sherlock hadn't had a proper night of sleep in several days and his transport was about to give out on him. He couldn't go home, but he needed to sleep.

Sherlock didn't believe in luck, but he couldn't help but wonder, when Molly Hooper plucked up the courage to ask him out for drinks after her shift. His feigned ignorance of her intentions when she'd asked him out for coffee should have put her off, as it was designed to. But here she was, hands fidgeting but eyes determined, biting her lip as she waited for an answer.

You can't just ask someone if you can sleep at their flat; even Sherlock knew that. But you can end up there at the end of a date, if you play your cards right. Molly was so infatuated with him that it wouldn't even take much, in terms of intimacy, to be invited into her bed. Some heavy petting, an orgasm, and he would have a warm bed to sleep in until morning.

There might be complications, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

Sherlock didn't believe in luck. But he did believe in seizing opportunities.

* * *

 

The invitation seemed to have exhausted Molly's supply of bravery, as she imbibed a bit more liquid courage than Sherlock had expected. Four drinks in, her hand was on his thigh, and she was inviting him back to hers.

Sherlock didn't believe in luck. He did believe in the strength of a good plan.

* * *

Sherlock didn't believe in luck. But some higher power seemed to be on his side, because as it turned out, he didn't have to do much work at all. Molly slammed him against the door as soon as it was closed. Molly led him to her room by his belt loops, her mouth insistent on his. Molly left a trail of his clothing behind them as she guided him to her bed. Molly pushed him down to sit at the edge of the bed, Molly knelt between his knees, Molly took him into her mouth - ohh, her not too small perfect perfect warm wet mouth. Molly brought him to the precipice and let him hang there, Molly climbed onto his lap, Molly sank down onto him.

Sherlock didn't believe in luck. He didn't believe in a higher power. He didn't believe in love. He just believed in the warm, wet press of Molly's body against, above, around him. He believed in the sounds she made, oh, the sounds. He believed in the tightness of her body clenching around him. He believed in the ecstasy she wrung from his body.

He believed in the softness of her breast, the synchronicity of their heartbeats, the comfort of her warm body pressed against his as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't believe in luck, but somebody or something was looking out for him - Molly was still fast asleep when he awakened. He followed the trail of his clothing, gathering it like breadcrumbs back to her sitting room. He sat on the couch.

Everything looked different to him, somehow. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He wasn't supposed to enjoy it. It wasn't supposed to change the way he felt about her.

But it had.

Sherlock sat with his head in his hands, wrapped up in the crocheted blanket Molly kept on the back of her couch, and tried to figure out where to go from here. Nothing made sense. He didn't believe in love. Did he?

A muffled groan came from the direction of the bedroom, and Molly soon shuffled out, bleary eyed and wrapped in a hideous pink dressing gown. She stopped short when she saw Sherlock seated on her couch.

"Sherlock?" She looked almost as confused as she was hung over. "Did you kip on my couch last night?"

She didn't remember.

Sherlock didn't believe in luck, but if he did, he would have to concede that his luck had just run out. 


End file.
